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erju-ess themselves with a proper degree of freedom. A school in which all the children are trained to be equally clever is an army of soldiers, a machine moved by the word of command. The teacher who maintains a too rigid discipline, enhances to himself the difficulty of observing the characters, &c, of his pupils. On the other hand, the teacher who allows the pupil a proper degree of freedom knows the more certainly what is in him, and what he has to fear, and what to hope from each. I always, when I meet with a child, enter into conversation with him, and seldom do I part from him without profiting by the intercourse. Converse with your pupils not only in the school, but when you have an opportunity on everyday things. Observe them also during their play. Here it is one sees most completely the germ of the future character. That teacher but ill understands his own interest who so conducts himself that the children who are at play will cease to do so and separate as soon as he makes his appearance. And one need not fear that by R proper degree of familiarity here he will lose his respect, if he knows how, by his abilities and his earnestness, to preserve that respect when he is engaged in earnest things.
EELIGIOUS INFLUENCE OF A LITTLE GIRL.
[The truth of the following incident of the awakening in the United States is vouched for by the editor of the paper in which it appeared.]
The little western settlement which I shall call Cranberry Meadow, was one of the last to feel the influence of the recent revival of religion. It was not that the little unpretending village had not suitable subjects for such a moral and spiritual renovation. Perhaps, the fact was partly owing to the absence of any organized body of Christians there, with whom such a movement usually commences. Perhaps, it might also bo attributed to the unusually quiet and phlegmatic temperament of the villagers, who were content to pursue the even tenor of their way without much communication with the world around them. For weeks after the rich displays of Divine grace had visited nearly every Eastern city and village, the inhabitants of Cranberry Meadow remained apparently unmoved and unaffected. The little Sunday school which had been a few months previous established there, by the agent of one of our benevolent Sunday School Associations, still held its weekly sessions. But the superintendent of the school had been smitten down with severe illness, and was compelled to return to the East, as the only means of regaining lost health.
At length a letter was received from him by the school, giving an interesting account of the religious movement at the East, and expressing a hope that the work had extended to them, and would result in great and blessed changes in all their homes and hearts.
Solemn and tender as this letter and appeal were, there was one heart only in the school that seemed to feel their force and power. Little Clara Gale, a modest quiet child of about ten years, wept freely over the loving message of the absent superintendent, and conld not be soothed by the assurances of her parents that he did not mean a child like her. She felt that she was a sinner. She knew that she had never experienced in her own heart such a blessed operation of the Spirit as that letter described. She was conscious that although guiltless of any outbreaking sin, she had lived for herself, and not to please and serve God, her Creator, Father, and best friend. Now Clara was the only child of her parents, and they could not see a fault in one whom they almost idolized. She was as lovely as any anregenerate child could be. Her father was a man of taste and wealth; had been formerly distinguished at the East as a man of education and influence, and in his successful prosecution of the legal profession, had added to his unlimited wealth. But he was ambitious to a fault j and having failed to secure a high civil and political trust when it seemed just within his grasp, he was so mortified at his defeat, and so disgusted with tho treachery and trickery of party politics, that he resolved to bury himself and family in some obscure village at the for West. So he came to Cranberry Meadow, when the little Clara was three or four years old. Four children much older than Clara he had buried at the East; and when he saw her whom he had also feared to lose, grow healthy and strong in her western home, he was satisfied and content. The villagers greatly esteemed Squire Gale, and almost worshipped the little daughter; and when the Sunday school agent went from house to house, to gather the children into that institution, the first question asked by each parent and child was, "Will Clara Gale go P"
The agent had met Clara before he reached her father's house, and had secured her interest in his enterprise. And when Squire Gale was asked for his sanction to her attendance, although not a pious man, yet he remembered the conservative tendencies of Sunday schools at the East, and readily promised his name and influence in their favor. He had been pleased to recommend the thing to his neighbours, and felt rather flattered with their unhesitating adoption of his counsel. Though not concerning himself much as to the instruction which his daughter received at the Sunday school, yet he was pleased with her enjoyment in going, and felt no misgivings at the propriety of his course. But when Clara came home in tears, and her father found that he could not soothe her into forgetfulncss of the truths which had'so impressed her, he was troubled and perplexed. It was In vain that he assured her that " she had no cause for alarm or sorrow —that she was a good child, and always had been." Her conscience was convicted of Bin. She resorted to her Bible; and its declarations harmonizing with the voice of conscience, deepened her convictions. She knew not where to go for relief or direction; and shrank, indeed, from makihg her feelings known to any one. At length a happy idea entered her mind. She would go to the gentleman who had received, and read to the school, the superintendent's letter, and beg it for perusal. She obtained it, and carried It to her chamber. She read and re-read its entreaties that the dear scholars would seek of Jesus pardon for their sins, and reconciliation with their offended Father in heaven. "Read your Bibles, and pray the God of the Bible, for Christ's sake, to show you the way of salvation; and believe that he Will fulfil his promise,' Him that cometh to me, I will in no wiso cast out.'" These were the closing words. The troubled child saw in them light and hope. She believed the Divine promise; and committing herself thus to the declared ability and willingness of God to gave her, she found " him faithful that had promised." Love for her good and gracious Redeemer, sorrow for her sinful neglect of him, gratitude for his assurances of pardon, sow filled her heart j and a new-born peace spread over her young face. Rumour and gossip soon sent the account from house to house.
A neighbour called on Squire Gale to talk the matter over. "It's all nonsense," said the man, "for your Clara to think she has been converted. She's just like a little angel always. I don't believe in religion's making her any better; she's good enough before. If Dan Hunter, now, could be turned round, and made a Christian of, I'd believe in it" Clara heard this conversation, and her heart beat with pity and desire for poor Dan, whom she well knew to be one of the worst of sinners. He was idle, profane, thievish; and a miserable cripple besides. As soon as the neighbour referred to had left the house, Clara sprang to her father's side. "Papa, may I go and see old Dan Hunter?" "What for, my child?" "I want to tell him Jesus died for him." The father could not, dare not oppose her wish. Speeding along with all a child's alacrity and hopefulness, and with a silent prayer to God for help, she reached the comfortless shanty which Dan Hunter called his den. Once before she had been there, with her father, when the miserable man lay ill with his broken leg, and had carried him food and medicine. He was surprised then to see her, but more astonished now. "Did you s'pose I was sick again, little lady ?" was his first greeting, and a more civil one than Clara had dared to hope for. "Yes," said the child, " I knew you were sick. I've been sick myself, and I've come to tell you how I was cured, and to beg you to be cured too." And opening the little Testament which she had brought in her pocket, she read of him who came to heal the sin-sick soul. She told the wicked man before her what a sinner she had felt herself to be, and how the blessed Saviour had made her to trust in him. And with loving heart and tender tones, she asked him " If he was not a sinner too, and if he did not need the same Saviour whom she had found?" Poor, old Dan! nothing, nothing had ever so touched his heart. He fell upon his knees to the ground, he smote upon his breast and cried out, "Lord, ha' mercy on the worst of sinners, the worst of sinners!" God heard that earnest penitent cry; and when Clara left the old man's den, she left him praising the mercy which could save a wretch like him. Dan Hunter went from house to house, to tell the story of saving grace. And to all he met, he would say, "It's the same gospel, the very same gospel that so blessed little Clara Gale. You wouldn't think it could be—such a dreadful sinner as I've been—but the same good Lord who takes little children in his arms and blesses 'em, saves the chief of sinners too. It's true, it's true,' Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.'"
In a few days Cranberry Meadow was the scene of a blessed revival.
THE STAFFORDSHIRE MINER. "I Am too ill to attend to you, child," said a poor suffering workman, in one of the iron mines of Staffordshire, to his daughter Susan, a little Sunday school girl, who had learned the way to heaven, and who was repeating to her apparently dying father, 1 Tim. i. 15, and other passages. "I am too ill to attend to you, child." A sigli escaped from the child as Bhe sat down by the bed side, apparently in prayerful thougbtfulness. I moved forward so as to engage her attention. She looked up, blushed, immediately rose, and said, "111 call my mother, sir."
Taking a chair at the side of the bed, I spoke to the poor fellow, who, though evidently better, was still suffering very much. He seemed surprised at the sound of my voice, and turned himself to gaze at me, but the bandages which enveloped his head prevented him from discerning my features. I replied to this movement by saying,
"You do not know me, but I called last night, soon after your accident, and felt anxious to see you again."
'■ Thank you, sir," he said. "I am very bad, and don't know how it will go with me, but it was well I was not killed; 1 am afraid I shall lose my eyes. It would have been a sad thing for them poor things if I had been taken."
"And how would it have been with you," I asked, "if you had been called so suddenly into the presence of God? You know, I hope, that there is no salvation for the soul, save as we repent of sin, and look to Jesus Christ, the sinner's friend?"
The countenance of the man again expressed surprise, and, as if speaking to himself, he said—
"It is he: it is his voice."
Then turning again towards me, he asked,
"Is your name Mr. , sir?"
"Yes," I replied, " that is my name; but you are a stranger to me, as I am almost a stranger in this neighbourhood."
"I thought I knew your voice," he said " as soon as I heard it, and your words just now brought back to my mind when I last saw you."
My interest in him was now increased, and I asked with some curiosity,
"When and where was that?"
"Do you remember, sir, teaching a class of boys in — chapel, in London, many years ago?"
"Yes, very well," I replied, " but it is certainly many years ago, for I was then quite a young man."
"Well, sir, and don't you remember a dark-haired boy of the name of William, who used to give you a good deal of trouble, aDd whom you used to teach in the week at your own house sometimes?"
"I do very well remember him," I said; " and is it possible that you are that same lad? I often made inquiry after him, but never learned more than that the family had gone away; and had long since forgotten the surname, though I remember the boy William."
"T am the same lad, sir, lying here now; and very glad I Jam to'see you again."
With this he stretched out his hand to welcome me. Exhausted with the excitement and the conversation, he fell back on the bed, whilst I, deeply interested in this unexpected recognition of my long-forgotten scholar, retired
from the bed room to tho little room below. Mrs. Penley and two or three of the children had come into the room during our conversation. In a few minutes sho followed me. We talked together a little upon tho singularity of this mooting, and I learned from her that thoy had been married about fourteen years, and that they had lived in the neighbourhood of their present dwelling nearly the whole of the time. Penley was a sober and steady man, liad constant work, except dining the strike. He was a good husband, and kind to tho children, but she added, with tears in her eyes,
"Ho doosn't give his mind to better things, and that grieves me very muoh."
One evening—(the writer is speaking of the samo man, rcoovcrcd from his accident, and of tho family)—one evening early in the spring, I was visiting several families in the neighbourhood of Penley's house, and about half-past eight o'clock had my hand on the latch of Penley's door. The sound of some one reading made me pause before I entered. Through the side of the blind I could Bee Penley, his wife, and live children, seated round the table, each with a Bible, from wliich they were reading in turn, apparently from one of tho gospels. I dared not interrupt them; and I stood while a verse or two of some hymn was sung, and then all knelt bcforoTGod, whilst tho father presented the family prayer. Joy and gratitude fillod my heart; and, on entoring tho room after all was finished, I could not help expressing the pleasure it gave me to sec them so engaged, and to inquire if it was a usual practice with them.
Penley was a little confused as he replied, " I endeavour, in my poor way, sir, to keep it up at nights when I am at home. But my words are very poor, sir. I wish you had stepped in a bit sooner." "It is the heart, William," I replied, " that God looks at; and if that bo sincere he will not regard the povorty of the words we U6e. However, I shall be very happy to join you some cvoning when I am passing tins way. Is this the usual time when you have it?"
"Bather later than usual, sir, we've been to-night, for tho boys stopped out longer than they ought. Wo like to have it early, sir, because of the little one, for she is very fond of her book, and, with Susan'B help, can spell out the words very well.—Family Scene*.
MORNING WITH THE CHILD. A Mother sat in tears by the bed-side of her youngest-born and best beloved. Six days had passed since the hand of fever was laid upon him, and, ever since, the life-fountains had been drying up under the fervent heat. Many times daily had she entered into her closet and bowed herself before the Father of Mercies, praying that the destroyer might pass by her dwelling. But prayers and tears availed not. Steadily the disease kept on its fatal course, and now scarcely a hope remained. Friends gathered around, offering words of consolation, but they were only as idle murmurs in her ears.
"The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away—blessed be the name of the Lord," said the good pastor, who, only a year before, had lifted the